Quick Haiku Update from R Von D

Today in my class

Sneezed and farted at same time.

Students laughed at me.


Love and Peace,
R Von D

A Real Goddamner of a Weekend

So I've been away for a while except for a little blurb from me and Fridge. The trappings of rural Connecticut have had me dealing with all sorts of things culminating with the festivities that are Parents' Weekend at my school. So as I sit here on my Monday day off watching a Paramore concert on MTV (Price is Right isn't on yet), I figured I'd give you an update.

As I just said, we had Parents' Weekend at my school this weekend. For the most part, things went smoothly, but having been at this for a little while now, there are certain things that go on that most don't know about. Having been an adolescent boy not too long ago, I remember that one of the things I did a lot was lie. Seriously I would lie to girls, lie to my friends, and even people I had no reason to lie to. Now, this is not an indication of the type of person I am, I just think that there is a pressure for young men to be cooler than they actually are, so they embellish stories and genuinely sound like jackasses in the process. The beauty of Parents' Weekend is I get to see how much these little pricks have been lying to their parents. And while most teachers get wood from seeing their teachings pay off, I love the looks on parents' faces when they find out that their little prick son has been lying to them for five weeks. Here are some instances this week. I'll just use arbitrary names for readability sake:

scha·den·freu·de or Scha·den·freu·de (noun)

Definition:

gloating at somebody else's bad luck: malicious or smug pleasure taken in somebody else's misfortune

[Late 19th century. <>]

Mr. Von D: Well Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I believe that Johnny's struggles in Latin are not from a lack of understanding or anything like that. His issues stem from lack of effort and preparation.

Mrs. Johnson: So, even with the extra help, he's still not preparing for his tests and quizzes?

Mr. Von D: What extra help.

Mr. Johnson: Johnny told us he is seeing you AT LEAST twice a week for extra help.

Mr. Von D: Johnny has not once come to see me for extra help, and has not even asked me to set up a time.

Mrs. Johnson: ARE YOU KIDDING ME, JOHNNY?!

Mr. Johnson: Yeah John, and forgive me Mr. Von D, but that's total bullshit Johnny. We're paying all this money so teachers like Mr. Von D can help you and now you're just wasting my money.

Point of fact; this kid is a total asshole. Nothing made me happier than to sit there and watch him squirm in his seat, staring at the floor, while he was berated by his own parents. I just sat there in my chair, arms folded across my chest, trying not to smile, but inside I felt like a cute little kitty cat was playing with a ball of string in my stomach. Case study number two:

Mrs. Smith: I feel that you are putting unrealistic expectations on my son.

Mr. Von D: With all do respect, Mrs. Smith, I feel like asking a second year student to do his homework on a nightly basis, come to class on time every day, and study for a weekly vocabulary quiz is not asking a whole lot.

Mrs. Smith: Well, um...maybe you can give him less homework.

Mr. Von D (What I actually said): The problem with that Mrs. Smith, is that I teach to an entire class of boys just like Kevin, and they all manage to get their work done. So in that sense, I don't single your son out, he singles himself out by not doing what is asked of him.

Mr. Von D (What I WANTED to say): Lady, I don't come where you work and jump on the bed.

So that was Friday afternoon and Saturday morning for me. Just sitting in my classroom, telling parents how shitty their little rays of sunshine actually were. You'd think that if your parents were spending upwards of around forty thousand dollars to basically not deal with you, you might put forth a little effort. Instead, I get a bunch of speedbags who I basically just have to babysit while their parents drink Heinnikens on Nantucket. As far as I'm concerned, all these yuppy assholes with pink sweaters tied around their necks deserve asshole kids, because when it comes down to it, that shit is encoded in their DNA.

Now, in writing this it has dawned on me just how much pleasure I take in watching asshole kids fail. Let me rephrase that actually, it's not asshole KIDS, it's just assholes in general. My schadenfreude is not age specific. Honest to God I can sit here and watch YouTube videos of little kids falling off their bikes or idiot skateboarders skid on pavement for ten feet on one of their cheeks. I think it's the same reason I can't get enough of those Maury Povich shows with the paternity tests. One time a woman went through twelve guys and still didn't find the father. Think about that for a second. How big of a window are you working with in terms of a pregnancy. Doctors can pretty much get down to the week or two when that baby was conceived. That means this broad slept with no less than thirteen guys in the matter of two weeks, maybe three. That's a dick a day pretty much. So forgive me for gloating that this woman does not have a father for her fat, ugly kid. Am I a dick because I think people get what they deserve? Probably, but fuck 'em...they'd laugh at me too.

To finish off a very productive long weekend, I spent the day yesterday taking clothes I don't wear anymore (ugly sweaters and ripped jeans) to the Salvation Army. I also watched "Blades of Glory" in between the Patriots and Red Sox games, which I watched by myself in slippers, a pair of boxers, and a sweatshirt while eating Life cereal. I think today I'll go to the movies to see "30 Days of Night" by myself because nobody is around to go with me. I'm sorry, what? I can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am.




Peacefrogs,
R Von D

PS - The girl from Paramore is only hot because she's behind a microphone. Lose the yellow eye shadow and we'll talk.

Inspiration From a Thirds Football Coach

Thirds football, for those of you who do not know, is the bottom of the athletic barrel. Basically what I do is teach non-athletes how to compete in one of the worlds most demanding games. The Thirds football team is below the Junior Varsity level, which in turn has me dealing with mostly freshman. In addition to freshman, however, I also get my share of sickly and uncoordinated upper-classmen. Still, even with the lack of athleticism on the field, we somehow manage to win. With a bucket full of trick plays and all-out blitz defense (since nobody in thirds football can pass) our squad is a force to be reckoned with. I say "force" because the teams on our schedule also include some middle schools.

It is also my duty as head coach to inspire these young men to go into battle showing their teeth and to be ready at all times to strike fear and inflict pain unto their enemies. Here are some ways I have inspired them during practice in preparation for our first game this Wednesday.


During a low-energy, low-intensity practice:

Me: You know guys, there are better things I could be doing right now other than watching you not try out here. Some of the other coaches have families they could spending time with. As for me, I could be spending time STARTING a family.

Team: (Laughter)

Me: (realizing what I just said) ... All of you take a lap.


On injuries:

Fat, soft lineman: Um...coach? I like have this thing. It's like asthma, but it's not really asthma. Like, I can play and stuff, but I can't, like ya know, run. I mean, I don't have an inhaler or anything, but like I have trouble breathing sometimes...I don't know.

Me: So you don't have asthma, but you can't do anything that involves fitness. Basically what you're telling me is that you want to play football, but you don't want to take part in anything other than games.

Fat, soft lineman: I guess.

Me: Get off my field.

Fat, soft lineman: What?

Me: Go to the nurse, Timmy.

(At this time I am still not sure of this kid's name was Timmy. He never came back.)

ANOTHER SCENARIO:

Kid: Uh, coach, I don't think I can run today, I have a hip thing.

Me: A hip thing?

Kid: Yeah.

Me: Tell you what, I bet you just need to stretch your "hip thing" out a little bit. Why don't you be a bruin for me and take a lap.

In preparation for our first game:

Me: Many of you have noticed that I now have a mustache. I'm getting a lot of questions as to why I would sully such a beautiful face and seemingly hurt my chances with the ladies. The answer, gentlemen, is simple: I am more committed to this football team and looking grizzled than I am to finding a significant other. My entire day actually is spent thinking about how I can somehow win football games and make you all miserable at the same time...just playin'. All kidding aside though, somebody had to come correct before we play our first game on Wednesday. And the only way I know to look hard and make my enemy fear me is to grow a mustache. I would have told all of you to do it, but most of your voices haven't even changed yet...so naturally, I had to do all the hardening up for you. Take a lap.

Football team: (Awestruck silence)


To me, there is no better way to build character and team unity than having people take a lap. And I know that we will be ready for our first game this Wednesday. If nothing else, we will be in better aerobic shape than the team we are playing. And you know, the coach in "Remember the Titans" was hated by his team at first, same with Ed "Straight Arrow" Genero in "Necessary Roughness." All of the greatest football coaches in history started out as real pricks. Legends continue to be pricks throughout. I'm hoping to be the latter.

With Mustache,
R Von D

Everybody Under the Age of Eighteen Is A Candy-Ass

Over the past few days I have meditated on the state of today's youth. I was driving my car through my parents' neighborhood the other day, and as I came to a four-way stop sign I noticed a gang of kids whose ages ranged from about thirteen to fifteen. Now, being on their bicycles in a relatively safe neighborhood, it dawned on me that these kids are soft. Decked out in pads from head to toe, I became furious just laying eyes upon these kids. I remember ten years ago, I was riding my Haro Shredder around the neighborhood doing wheelies and stoppies in between constructing the most ridiculous "ramps" out of the most ridiculous pieces of wood I could find. All of this without any types of padding. Anybody who has had the pleasure of setting their eyes on me will tell you that I am more grisled that ninety percent of the male population. To date, I have broken thirteen bones, amassed over 50 stitches, have arthritis in one shoulder due to thirteen shoulder separations, and permanent nerve damage in my neck which leaves the tips of my fingers tingling. While those numbers may be somewhat staggering, I'm of the belief that said injuries have made me the man I am today and I'd do it all over again if I have to. My mother, God bless her, had the perfect question waiting for me every time I came home bloodied and hobbled.

"Mom," I'd say "me and Joe were jumping our bikes and I think I messed up my ankle." (I know that's bad grammar to say "me and Joe," I did that on purpose, professor.)

She would then counter with "Well, why the hell did you do that?" From a very young age I was held responsible for my own actions, no matter how stupid. Seriously, what better question to ask a kid who just effed himself up than "What the hell did you do that for?" Each time she said it I had to re-evaluate my life and come up with a concrete reason for why, at thirteen, it was a terrible idea to sit on a skateboard and go screaming down a large hill around a blind corner where I was in real danger of being wedged under somebody's minivan.

(Funny sidestory: My brother and I were HUGE into roller blading when we were younger. One time a kid in the neighborhood tried to big-time us by doing his paper route on rollerSKATES, totally bit it going down that same hill, and wound up with some missing teeth and a broken wrist.)

Now, being soft is not only reserved for extracurriculars. It seems as though schools have totally taken the fun out of being a kid. In terms of their education, the "No Child Left Behind" business, this feel-good, touchy-feely bullshit, has made it okay for every kid to be an absolute dolt. By celebrating mediocrity and shunning any real praise for kids who bust their balls every single day, we slip farther and farther into the stereotype that Americans are lazy good-for-nothing jagoffs. I will also point out that schools in the Northeast are also going so far as to ban dodge ball from physical education. I'm not a fan of social Darwinism from an economic standpoint but come on. Why do we punish the kids who are good at things? I know when I was a kid dealing with the angst we all go through at one time, a good way to blow off some steam was to bean one of my peers in the head with an all-purpose athletic ball. One of the old school red ones. Nothing made me happier than to send a kid back to class with a big "VOIT" tattooed across his face, or at the very least, his upper-chest/neck region. A lot of people will tell you that hitting a homer in baseball is the best feeling in the world. Some will tell you that draining a thirty footer in somebody's face is the ultimate sports-related high. I will contest that the sound of a playground ball, that all-too-familiar "FFTHOOM!" sound is like church bells to me. Remember that scene in the Big Lebowski when The Dude is mediating on his rug listening to the sounds of bowling pins being knocked down? I wish I had a 90-minute cassette tape with that "FFFTHOOM!" sound over and over, both sides, extended play. Can somebody make that happen?

Lastly, something has been on my mind for some time and I feel this is the perfect forum for me to air this one out. Emo music is making our nations' youth absolutely useless. First CD I bought with my own money - Metallica's Black Album. I had angst, I had rage inside me, but I funneled those feelings into pure aggression and face-melting licks on the meedly-meedlies. And I thank Kirk Hammet for getting me through my early teens. Seriously, if you're having a bad day, please listen to the guitar solo in any PRE-"Load" Metallica album and you'll be all set. Maybe I'll write another blog about how THEY'RE a bunch of sissies now, but I need to stay on track. Let me put it this way, I'm a pretty sensitive guy when I have to be. I am usually (and by usually I mean rarely) considerate of other people's feelings, especially those of the fairer sex (but not really). However, there is a time and a place for everything. Hey kids, everybody gets made fun of once and a while. Everybody has awkward and rough times, and if you think that Jr. High and High School are the end-all, be-all to your existence, then maybe you should drink bleach. Here's a tip from me; life gets way cooler when you're OUT of school. So stop pricking your finger and writing in your "Nightmare Before Christmas" journal in your own blood, shit will buff out. I'm also pretty sure that the girl you're pining over, the really artsy girl who has interesting things to say, she already has a pussy and doesn't need another one. Chicks dig confidence, not guys who wear tighter clothing than they do and have half their faces covered by a single lock of purple hair. Do yourself a favor, pick yourself up of the ground, rub some dirt or spit into whatever wound you have, and be a goddamn Bruin about it. If some kids at school are picking on you 'cause you're different, kick somebody's ass like in prison. It's not cool to be miserable for the sake of looking cool. Sure it worked for the Cure, but not for upper-middle class kids from New England. Unearned unhappiness is for jerkoffs. There, I said it.


Hard to the Core, Core to the Rotten,
R VON D (aka Kid Dynamite)